


Psalm 51:3

by Aredhel_Alcarin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 03:50:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20351920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aredhel_Alcarin/pseuds/Aredhel_Alcarin
Summary: And then, looking directly into Crowley’s eyes, it all becomes easier.The words just flow.“I have come to apologize.”





	Psalm 51:3

Aziraphale takes a deep breath.

He’s still fidgeting with his fingers (the hem of his coat sleeves are long worn out from years of constant anxiety), trying to gather the courage to actually buzz the intercom, and when he looks up at Crowley’s apartment window it feels like a distant fortress.

(Not that reaching Up in search of an answer has ever turned out any better, he’s used to it by now; but it’s still a bit unsettling.)

It’s been bothering him for days; this tiny little voice in the back of his head dropping hints and messing with his otherwise perfectly trained habit of waiting for the problem to solve itself until it’s too late and you realize it’s in front of you, threatening to explode. But he likes to think he has changed in these past weeks since the world almost ended, has become a better– well, _person_; a better friend. Uh, partner. _Other-half_.

Now, if Aziraphale is being honest with himself, ‘for days’ is a bit of an understatement here. Sure, it was barely an abstract itch at first, something worth exploring but not so urgent that you couldn’t leave it for tomorrow (again and again), but that was almost seventy years ago. Since then it has been a semi-formed idea for decades, vague and dim like a stratus cloud, but it’s true that it has just now developed into a full deep dive for him to jump right into. That can be a little scary. But, then again, he has faced an Apocalypse, how hard can this be? How hard can it get, reaching out to your best friend to finally put all your cards on the table and speak frankly?

On one hand, Aziraphale would gladly face Satan again instead.

On the other, he really, _really_ wants to do this. Well, sort of. He looks forward to the afterward, to the moment when the voice has finally shut up and he doesn’t have any more doubts; but he’s not very excited about the talking itself. He’s also not very nervous about the consequences because he truly believes they will be good at best, and simply not bad at worst, so that helps.

Plus, he can’t postpone it any longer. That’s part of the problem, really, his reluctance to face his own failures; but also the conviction that Crowley _must know_. He must know, right? He has always been more observant, more– sharp-witted.

Going to Crowley’s apartment weirdly makes him feel more relaxed than doing it in the bookshop, mostly because it means that he can leave if and when he needs to. A public place would be– well, _too public_, that’s why he hasn’t suggested St. James or any of their usual meeting points; and he knows he couldn’t possibly force Crowley to leave the bookshop if the situation got to that. But he can always leave the place if he’s a guest, he can close the door behind him and create a physical wall to avoid looking back while going back home.

So when he finally buzzes (twice, and his hand is ready to do it a third time before a suspicious and croaky voice answers it), he feels a small weight lifted. This, deciding to take the step, was probably the hardest part.

“Who is it?”

“Crowley, it’s me, it’s– Aziraphale.”

There’s a small pause then, an awkward silence, before the door unlocks and Aziraphale finally gets in.

He goes up to find Crowley’s apartment door already opened, him leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed in what is probably supposed to be a cool and nonchalant posture for any eyes that don’t know him as well as Aziraphale’s. He looks a bit tense.

“Is something wrong?”

“Oh; no, no, my dear. Everything’s fine, why would you ask that?”

“You never come to my house.”

“Ah, well, you see, I simply wanted to have a chat with you; so I thought to come here. It was only natural” Crowley raises an eyebrow, silent, but his shoulder seems to relax a bit. “I also thought it was time for me to visit, you know, in my own body. See how those lovely plants are doing.”

Crowley snorts. They’re still on the threshold, like Aziraphale was some kind of vampire that needed an invitation, so he just puts the weight on his feet again and holds the door for him, theatrically.

“Come in, angel.”

“Thank you.”

The apartment is as slickly gray as ever, like a very modern fridge had had a baby with a concrete block; not that he had been much time there last time.

Aziraphale does stop for a couple of minutes to talk to the plants, complimenting them on their greenness and general leafiness, and patiently waits for Crowley to pour them a glass of Rioja Gran Reserva before sitting on the ridiculously enormous and squared leather couch.

“How– comfortable!” Aziraphale accepts the glass with a smile. “Doesn’t look like it.”

“Sometimes sleek style and cozy softness do come together” Crowley replies, cheekily, using all the extra space on the couch to scrawl. “So. What is it?”

“I, well.” Aziraphale clears his throat, looking at his own knees first, then at Crowley. He hadn’t realized he doesn’t have his sunglasses on, which make sense taking into consideration he was alone at home and all that, but it makes Aziraphale feel warm that he hasn’t felt the need to hide his eyes as soon as he knew there will be a guest. That helps ease his nerves, too, his thumbs patting the stem of the wine glass restlessly instead of putting it on the coffee table and having to fret empty-handed.

Aziraphale actually likes Crowley’s sunglasses, he thinks they give him an aura of mystery and coolness and he loves watching them adapt throughout the years; but mostly he likes the fact that he only takes them off with him.

It’s not about the eyes per se; it’s not some kind of trauma. Any sign of otherness triggers human’s alarms and, if you’re trying to live among them, you must look as much like them as possible. He probably wouldn’t need them by now, with all those crazy colored contact lenses and insane cosmetic surgery options you can find at your disposal; but the sunglasses also serve as a wall to prevent yourself from getting too emotionally attached. Humans come and go, and it’s hard to let them see through you knowing they will inevitably leave an empty space soon after.

It’s easier for Aziraphale, though. Death is still an angel, after all, even if a very (and the only truly) neutral one; and what does an angel do if not find meaning in dying? Heaven might be a ferocious business, but humans fill the stream of life that is the Cosmos. They’re always part of the Universe, and that gives Aziraphale some kind of comfort. A sense of peacefulness.

Angels are prepared to rationalize their Love, to channel it towards a steady figure, but what happens when you’ve been forsaken by it? When you’ve been rejected, deprived of that light? Then caring is always much more painful because it seems pointless. It makes you love without measure, desperately, _furiously_. Completely hopeless. That’s what Crowley does, and that’s why he needs not only the sunglasses, but also to hear what Aziraphale has to say: so they can balance each other out. So Aziraphale can return the favor and show Crowley that if he doesn’t need to shield himself from him, Aziraphale can also be completely open and honest with him.

And then, looking directly into Crowley’s eyes, it all becomes easier.

The words just flow.

“I have come to apologize.”

Crowley squints, stopping mid-sip.

“What for?”

“I haven’t been as good a friend as I should have.”

“Why, what have you done?”

Crowley’s shoulders tense again, and Aziraphale knows he’s fighting the urge to look everywhere, looking for something broken. He chuckles.

“Not enough, I’ve come to realize” Aziraphale says, his voice steady but melancholic. “I’ve been thinking a lot since the, uh, almost-Apocalypse; and how we’re on our own side now, and… and how you’ve been on our own side for quite a while.”

“You know me” Crowley manages, suddenly missing his sunglasses, “always one step ahead.”

“I wasn’t, though. On our side, I mean” Aziraphale confesses. “For a very long time I’ve been terrified of the consequences, yes; but mostly I was trapped in my own doubts and selfishness. I thought I was being so clever” he mutters, an incredulous smirk curving his lips, “but at the same time I had this constant fear of having gotten it all wrong.”

He makes a pause, takes a small sip of that wonderful wine to fill the blank. Crowley just waits.

“It wasn’t you, I have to say. No, it wasn’t you– _yours_, because I’ve only felt it now, looking back. One of those things you only realize it exists when having some perspective.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your love” Aziraphale says, and it could have been God’s name from the way he said it.

“My love” Crowley repeats; mocking, sarcastic, incredulous, terrified.

Aziraphale smiles, and suddenly the room seems brighter.

“Yes, my dear. It’s flooding now, filling every little space around us; but obviously it didn’t exist when we first met. It’s like meeting a human once and then never seeing them again until thirty, forty years later: they’re clearly older then, you can easily tell. But if you live with them, if you have spent all that time by their side, seeing them every day; then you wouldn’t notice, because you’ve experienced the change. You’re– immune to it. So it wasn’t your love I was terrified of, it was my own greed. My reactions to you.”

“Pardon me?”

“I liked you, when we first met at the Garden” Aziraphale says, and Crowley shrinks in the couch. “You were– civil, for a demon, not that I personally knew many. Polite, even.”

The memory of that first meeting floats between them, naïve and innocent and full of possibilities, and Aziraphale tilts his wine glass to see the sunlight reflect on it as that primitive Sun shone over the Garden. It had been the rain, however, the very first rain, what marked the beginning of their relationship.

(Who would have said that it would still take centuries until the creation of the rainbow, when it was obviously the only possible outcome after a storm? Just look at them.)

“Running into you from time to time, Mesopotamia, Golgotha, even Rome; it made me think of you as some kind of entertainment, an acquaintance of sorts. It was nice, you’ve always been a great conversationalist. You helped me feel less alone when my world became too human, since of course I couldn’t call my celestial brothers regarding such lazy matters. Of course it couldn’t be bad to just– talk, right? I could even be getting under your skin, keeping you from doing wrong. Or so I told myself.”

Crowley smiles softly, unwittingly.

“And then we started the Agreement, and I thought, ‘he’s using you’. Someone’s going to notice. But then again, you were also performing miracles! So if you were using me, I was using you just the same. That sounded almost just. Fair. It made me feel like I was keeping up; like I was being– or, better, _not being_ outsmarted by you. Which I suppose it’s not a very angelic thing to say, but Humanity does that to you, I guess.”

“You’ve always been a very unorthodox angel, I’m afraid” Crowley mutters, mostly to feel he’s still able to talk. His throat feels dry.

Aziraphale chuckles to himself, shy.

“So I kept relying on that. I never wondered how were you able to find me every time, or how could you always be in the right place at the right time; it just seemed convenient. It didn’t even occur to me to ask you, and why would I? As they say, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. I wasn’t going to keep an eye on you, anyway. Sure you had your own agenda.”

Crowley shifts, uncomfortable. He’s sitting much more straight now, like the conversation has turned too formal for his taste.

“Sure you wanted something, because why would you put yourself in danger for me? Why would you take care of me in any way? That was way too off your path, but I didn’t need answers then. I didn’t want them. They make things complicated. And it was easy for me, knowing you would appear if I was in trouble. I never asked myself if you were okay, as long as you were there for me. I could always count on you, you see? I was still using you. I was still trying to keep up.”

Aziraphale sighs, embarrassed. He knows what he wants to say, which words will lead to the apology and the promise that Crowley deserves to hear; but it’s hard admitting this openly that you had been not only a bad person, but a bad friend.

A bad– whatever they are.

The silences are heavy, not long enough to be awkward, but deep and anxious. Aziraphale is glad Crowley is letting him talk without interrupting since it helps his thoughts keep its structure and cohesion, but seeing him so quiet feels wrong and makes him feel sad. He unwittingly tries to avoid Crowley’s eyes at this point, in case he’s faced with disappointment.

(He’s not. That’s somehow worse, like all of this was expected, _deserved_.)

“When you came to my cell in Paris, during the Revolution, I was waiting for you to rescue me” Aziraphale continues. “I became accustomed to you being there for me. I worried sometimes, sure, but I can’t be sure it was about you. I worried because, what if you decided to never show up anymore? What would _I_ do then? I would miss you, terribly so. And of course I didn’t want anything bad happening to you, you personally, Crowley; because at a certain point you stopped being a demon and started being _my_ demon, as if I had some sort of claim over you. As if it were you who owed something to me.”

Crowley doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t say that, when he calls Aziraphale _angel_, what he actually means is _my angel_.

“I couldn’t give you the Holy Water. It didn’t matter that you may have needed it; I couldn’t bear the thought of you just– disappearing. Poof!” Aziraphale exclaims in a quiet voice, gesturing lightly with his hands, trying to joke. “No, you couldn’t leave me. That would have been terrible, for me.”

“Aziraphale…”

Aziraphale raises a hand, politely, and Crowley lets him continue.

“I don’t want you to misunderstand: losing you would be the worst thing that could happen to me now, either, but at least now I know where my worries are coming from. I’m not mistaking my fears with useless pride; unable to tell you that, yes, you are the most important thing in my life. That I believe in you more than I believe in anything else, and that includes God” Aziraphale swallows, still hesitant to even think such a thing, but Crowley’s apartment’ absolute disregard for domesticity makes him feel oddly comforted. Extreme minimalism has a way of making everything look frivolous and trivial.

Crowley’s back is completely straight by now, as if trying to look proper, his hands placed weirdly stiffened over his lap. Unbelievable, after all these years and he still doesn’t know how to function with four human limbs without looking alien.

(It is true, though, that such degree of straightness inevitably looks angelic; and that always looks alien.)

Aziraphale wets his lips. Communication, what a concept! It would be much easier to simply _know_ what the other is thinking, plotting, concealing, regretting. Like a mental bond or some sort of telepathy link, a sixth sense capable of decoding what words often are not enough to convey. Kind of like an angel’s capacity to feel love, it could be argued; but isn’t it unfair if only one of the parties has access to it? If this complete understanding and consequent peacefulness of mind are only one-sided, leaving the other side to give its trust blindfolded?

What’s more, the act of verbalizing your inner feelings is worthy in itself. There’s something powerful about knowing that every statement has been purposefully made; every declaration of affection, of sorrow, of embarrassment: there’s a willingness behind them, a desire to be told out loud for the other person to hear.

A paradoxically silent permission to have a peek into our own mind, an active invitation; rather than a passive (and, sometimes, unintentional) unlocked door.

“That’s probably my biggest regret, not realizing my own weaknesses for so long” Aziraphale confesses. “If I had tried to understand; to, to figure out what was going on not just with you, but also myself. Myself the most. Thousands of years surrounded by humans and it didn’t even occur to me that there were choices, can you believe? But I guess I’m just, how was that, what did you call me that time? ‘Too stupid’?”

Crowley winces.

“I’m sure I didn’t mean that.”

Aziraphale smirks, knowingly, and pats Crowley’s knee.

“Ah, but you did. And you were right” he says, eyes sparkling, and seems to suddenly remember. “Ah, ’how can someone so clever be so stupid’, yes. That was it. Has a nice ring to it.”

“Note that it’s basically a compliment.”

Aziraphale does laugh this time, soft and flowery.

“I do am both, apparently, but even someone too clever to be so stupid can have an epiphany. Do you remember the Blitz?”

“I do.”

“We hadn’t seen each other in over a century. A part of me thought you hated me; the other hoped you would still be there for me, as always, fixing my mistakes” Aziraphale makes a small pause. “And you were. You stepped into Holy ground simply because I needed help, and I didn’t even think twice about that. Of course you were there, I was in trouble. It’s what you do.”

There’s a shift in the air then, like the first shadow of light before dawn, and Aziraphale beams.

“But then you saved my books” he lets out the tiniest laugh, like he still couldn’t believe it to this day. “You saved my books, Crowley, when they mean absolutely nothing to you. And I thought, such a selfless act, such a simple decision– how can a demon fly so near Her glory without burning? How could you, Fallen and Disgraced, be holier than me? Was that even possible? I was devastated. I was drowning. I was utterly and completely certain I had never seen a Light brighter than yours then, and I am utterly and completely certain now that no one has ever felt the amount of love I was struck with at that moment. It wasn’t new; it had been there for centuries, I just wasn’t aware of it. I hadn’t wanted to see it.”

Their wine glasses are empty.

It is probably the least of their concerns right now, in the middle of an eerie silence where time seems to have stopped; but Aziraphale takes the bottle and gently fills Crowley’s, then his, before continuing. It’s a good distraction to let his words sink in.

“And then I realized, you didn’t have any secret agenda. You just– cared for me. Care for me. That’s what friends do, right? That’s what… we do.”

Aziraphale purses his lips, unsure on how to continue.

“But it was a tough lesson to learn, to fully internalize. I gave you the Holy Water then, because I finally trusted –really trusted– you enough with it, but I was still adapting; still trying to figure out what this meant. I thought, for the longest time, that you didn’t have Faith; and thus I was somehow over you. Backed by a greater good, a greater force. But if I had been paying attention, if I had bothered to look at you instead of creating schemes in my head, I would have seen that your Faith was stronger than mine, and that everything you did was driven by it. And it sounds so obvious now I should have seen it way sooner, but, well; you’ve always been–”

“Too fast for you?” Crowley asks, and while it’s meant to be a joke and help soothe the moment, it’s the saddest Aziraphale has ever heard him.

He nods, shattered.

“Yes. Probably not remotely fast enough for your taste, but, alas.”

“I don’t mind waiting.”

“But you shouldn’t have to. Not when you’ve done so much for me. You see, my dear, if I hadn’t been so selfish, so _close-minded_; maybe we could have… _I_ could have enjoyed our time together more. I would have repaid you, in any way.”

Crowley exhales through the nose, with the exact same heartbreak in his face as that time in 1967, when Aziraphale gave him the Holy thermos.

He has the upper hand now, so that’s new.

“You won’t have to wait anymore, I promise you that. It may have taken me a failed Apocalypse to realize, but I’m here now, in every sense of the word” Aziraphale says, and his free hand finds Crowley’s easily enough; eyes locked into his. “You have no idea how much you mean to me, how much I love you, because I’ve never really shown you. I have never fully committed. You think you know but you can’t sense it, you can’t even imagine what I feel for you, and that breaks my heart.”

Suddenly the room is too hot, too cold for Crowley. The fragrance of the wine is too much, the couch is too leathery, and he has too many limbs. How does one sit, again? His eyes feel like burning, his jaw is tightly clenched to stop him from making any sound, and his brain is so loud that it may as well has been blank.

His hands are glued to his lap to stop him from touching Aziraphale because he doesn’t know what would be too much for him, what would be acceptable after such a speech. He feels tested, _tempted_; and he’s not used to be on this side in these exchanges. Is he allowed to brush his fingertips against his knuckles while holding his hand, to rest his head on his shoulder? To cup his jaw, to run his thumb against his cheek? To dare and take it one step further and nuzzle against his neck and just breathe, to be cradled on his soft chest and just sleep? Is he allowed–

All he wants to do is put his arms around him and hold him tightly.

Instead, he tries to joke.

“I’ve always thought it was me who needed confession.”

“You’ve already done that, Crowley. You’ve been confessing for millennia. The thing is; you’ve always dared to go farther, have always seen a much wider long term goal” Aziraphale laments, longing. “You have always been way ahead of me, and I have, well, vaguely sauntered onwards; and I am very sorry for that.”

Crowley snorts, but it could also have been a sniff.

“You don’t have to be.”

“But I do, my dear.”

“You were always just what I needed, angel” Crowley whispers, bashful. “You still are.”

“Crowley, please” Aziraphale sighs, that frown of his that is meant to look pleading but it’s actually a reprimand. “For my sake, if not for yours, please accept my apology. Don’t dismiss it.”

There’s a twinkle in Crowley’s eyes, like he had just won the biggest lottery prize but needed to meet one tiny requirement first in order to collect it; and he rests his back again on the couch. He decides to give it the importance it deserves, and announces it the same way he would recite Shakespeare.

“Alright, I accept your apology.”

“Will you forgive me?”

Now_ that_– that’s too much. That’s out of his reach.

You see, only God and those sent by Her can forgive. Forgiveness is something Crowley is meant to be given (or, rather, not given); not armed with. Demons don’t forgive. Demons _can’t_ forgive, because they lost that right when they Fell and are now destined to kneel and beg for mercy. At last, relent! For there is really no place left for repentance, none for pardon; but by submission.

Demons crawl trying to reach the stars that were theirs once while angels guard the sky, terrible and proud, shielded by their shining Grace.

But for a demon to absolve an angel, to grant another creature what has been denied by his own nature? That’s blasphemy. For Crowley to believe that he has not only touched the stars but bathed in starlight, to accept that he holds an angel’s (_his_ angel’s) worth in his hand as the Truth? That’s like denying Her. Like disregarding any chance of getting on her good side, of completing his punishment. But what’s God’s blessing compared to Aziraphale’s devotion, anyway? It’s probably the most heretic and rebellious proposition he’s ever going to be asked for, and if he wasn’t so overwhelmed he would be proud. He _is_ so proud.

And yet, he struggles with the words. Aziraphale’s eyes are determined, hopeful, bright; and Crowley needs a moment to adjust to this new warmth, to this new sense of fulfillment. He doesn’t even miss his sunglasses, at this point.

Aziraphale takes both his hands, smiling softly at him.

“I, I don’t–”

“Crowley” Aziraphale implores, looking at him in the eye, “will you forgive me?”

He swallows, because declarations are only as big as you feel them, only as big as they mean to you; and this is huge. It really is the worst sin, pride.

So he embraces it.

“Yes” he breathes. “Yes, I forgive you.”

Aziraphale relaxes his shoulders, like he had been somehow unsure of Crowley’s answer; and takes his face in his hands, reverently, lowering his head so he can place a chaste kiss in his forehead. A promise. Crowley feels like crying.

He nuzzles against Aziraphale’s shoulder, shivering, and lets himself be embraced by warm arms. Aziraphale rests his chin on Crowley’s hair, brushing his hair; and he smiles, satisfied.

Now they’re on the same page, so they can move forward.

At the same pace.

**Author's Note:**

> For I know my transgressions, and my sin is always before me.


End file.
